


A Foule-ish Heart

by banhmi



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 20:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16688380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banhmi/pseuds/banhmi
Summary: Chris had always assumed that nothing was ever going to happen between them. Wishful thinking and all that.Cue Josh cooking for him after a long night of studying.





	A Foule-ish Heart

**Author's Note:**

> hey there!! welcome to my fic! 
> 
> this started out as me wanting to write out a conversation and eventually turned into This after i started getting into a cooking mood. what to expect? nothing too complicated, cheesiness (of all types, including the edible kind), cotton candy fluff, and, of course, two very foolish boys because feelings are hard and talking is even harder. 
> 
> hope you enjoy, and happy reading!

Josh cooks for him for the first time on a night that they would have described as ordinary, if not a little boring. They’d decided to dedicate two Fridays a month to hunkering down and ignoring all invitations to promises of cheap beer and drinks mixed in inflatable pools and whooping down the streets at 3 AM. Second year required just bit more responsibility than none at all, and Chris preferred not to burn through his wallet before the end of first semester on cover fees alone. That, and did you _see_ the trailer for that game coming out in January? Insta-preorder. Deluxe edition.

Besides, it let them have more nights like these. Not that they didn’t have plenty, but who can deny the magic of lying on the floor surrounded by a moat of books and scattered notes while you pore over the same sentence ten times and, on the brink of a brain hemorrhage, realizing you have the chance to look up and study a much more worthwhile subject? Chris sure can’t.

From his spot on the hardwood, he watches Josh nestle into his hoodie, then into the couch to get more comfortable as he places his laptop on his stomach and types away at his essay. The lamplight coming from the side table highlights the curls of his hair, always more apparent after a shower, lines more sharply his jaw and the cut of his eyes. He has on a look of deep concentration, brows pulled together as he constructs a paragraph. Periodically, he plucks off a sticky note from the outer edge of his computer, the coloured squares lining it like series of scenes, and stacks them on the back of the couch with his propped-open books. Usually he tucks away in his room when he wants to focus, relegating himself to odd hours of the night. It’s a rare treat to see him so studious, and it’d be a crime not to savour it.   

A flash of heat bursts across his neck and up into his cheeks and crap, he can’t look like this. Josh could turn any minute. If the first thing he sees is his best friend looking like a tomato-faced Arnold Schwarzenegger from _Total Recall_ , what’s he going to think or do or say—alright, time to just put your head in your arms and cool your face off on the floor and not think about this. Think about the lodge, cold February air, drifts of snow, and...cozying up beside Josh under a big flannel blanket? Oh God. _No_ . I mean, yes. But _no_. His hands go into fists and he could just about start kicking his feet like a struggling frog...

And then it happens.

Not the spontaneous combustion he’d expected. On par, though.

A long grumble drifts out of his stomach, sounding similar to the agonized groan he would have let out if he had less self-control.

“Dude. Was that you?”

No. Go back to your essay.

“Dude.”

Nope.

Expecting a physical inquiry—a nudge in the head, a poke, a prod—he gives it a moment, lying still. Nothing. Come on, this isn’t comfortable. His glasses are very much not enjoying this angle. Couple more seconds…  

Chris unfolds and looks at the couch. The...empty couch. He blinks, quickly peeking over his shoulder into the hallway to their rooms. Empty (presumably). Losing sight of Josh can lead only to one outcome; pushing back onto his feet, he prepares himself for cardiac arrest.

“Bro,” he says, cleaning the smudges off his glasses with his shirt, “I just slogged through three hours of debugging. And readings! Cut me some slack here.”

No response.

“Jump scares are the cheapest type of scare, you said so yourself.”

Damn. That got him last time.

“Uh.” He lets his hands slap limp against his legs. “ _Halloween_ sucks. The...movie _and_ the holiday. It’s not even a holiday.”

Not a sound. Well. It was worth a shot. He takes a few steps back towards the kitchen counter, getting a wider view of the living room and hallway.

“Okay, I’m gonna look for you now. Can’t complain if I like, punch you in the face when you jump out at me— _AH!_ ”

A pair of hands latch onto his sides and it’s a matter of time before he gets tackled; Chris responds by spinning around, grabbing and holding those hands in place. With his own. Josh’s eyes widen, mischievousness evaporating and Chris can’t believe that this is actually happening on this plane of reality. Also, the fact that Josh’s eyes seriously look _nice_ in this low lighting. Ugh. What’s with his luck today? What the hell is this? Did he figure it out? Does he know now? Is the charade all over? Those thoughts fill his brain to near bursting, layering thick over each other. A low chuckle guides him out from under the pile.

“If you wanted to dance, you could’ve just asked,” Josh says, his grip going as lax as his voice.

It encourages Chris to soften his own grip, even if his skin doesn’t stop jittering. As he opens his mouth to protest, Josh takes his left hand and, lifting it above their heads, works him into a smooth spin that ends with him yelping and stumbling backwards into a stool by the kitchen counter.

“Nicely done,” Josh says, holding back a laugh.  

Chris performs a bow, more out of wanting to give his face time to move out of shock than to accept praise.

“Don’t let it go to your head. Half of that was ‘cause of me.”

“Did you not _see_ how graceful my landing was?”

“I saw something.”

“What?”

Josh gazes at him, tilting his head.

His stomach growls again before either of them can say anything more. He’s never been more glad to be hungry.  

The sound snaps Josh out of his stupor. He ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah. Now I remember why I came in here.” Stepping into the kitchen, he swings open the fridge and inspects its contents.

Chris turns in his seat and scoots around the counter to poke idly at Josh’s back, wishing instead that he could tip over and rest his chin on his shoulder. Nah. Only when he’s drunk. Maybe they _should_ have gone to that kegger.

“That’s not going to do you any favours.” Josh looks at him over his shoulder; Chris sees the light of the fridge behind his head as more of a halo than a flickering incandescent. Okay, he needs someone to smack him upside the head multiple times. Not yet, though. He needs to keep the rhythm going.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, “‘cause having you heat up hot pockets and bagel bites is a deed of the ages.”

Josh laughs. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I mean, in a really weird, roundabout way. For starters, they’re frozen. So...you might wanna try looking somewhere else?”

“‘M not making hot pockets and bagel bites.”

“Oh. So it’s a frozen pizza kind of night. Still looking in the wrong place.”

“It’s your thinking that’s wrong, dude.”

“Then...what are you doing?”

“You ever tried _koshari_?”

“Koo…”

“ _Koshari_. My mom used to make it all the time. Rice, pasta, tomato sauce?”

Chris wracks his brain, trying to put together the odd combination in a way that made sense. “Uh, I don’t think so. I just remember...”

“Oh, right. She never brought that out when you came over,” Josh says, retrieving items from the fridge. “Just a shitload of corndogs and PB&J.”

“Those were the days,” Chris says wistfully, accepting what Josh passes to him and placing them on the counter, not paying them much attention. “So. Koo-shah-ree. What’s that?”

“I’m going to make it. And you’re going to find out.”

Chris pauses, his heart taking a second longer to roll to a halt. “You’re going to make it.”

“You don’t sound very confident in my abilities, Christopher.”

“I’ve just...I’ve never seen you actually... _cook_ ?” _And you’re going to cook just for_ me _. What the hell._

Josh gives the fridge door a small push to close it. “So that means I can’t.”

“Well, no, obviously, but…”

“Shh...take it easy, bro. Just sit back and enjoy the show.” Wink.

God, did he have to do that? Chris fights off the burn in his cheeks, shielding his face by fidgeting with his glasses. He does it often enough that it shouldn’t look suspicious now, his timing perfected to make it look as if one of the arms were loose. Eight years and counting.

They’d made pancakes and omelettes and what they called ‘gourmet Kraft Dinner’ before. Never anything more complicated than ‘add this to boiling water and stir for three minutes’ or ‘push this around the pan with a dash of oil until it’s not frozen anymore.’ He’d always believed that, despite their best efforts, they just weren’t meant yet for the complexities of post-college dorm cuisine. They still giggled at ‘coq au vin’ for God's sakes. Investigating the items Josh had given him, he makes note of a pair of onions, a bowl of soaking lentils, and a small plastic container of minced garlic. This certainly gives a different impression.

“When did you get around to these?” Chris asks, rolling an onion from one hand to the other and back again. He leaves it alone when it almost careens off the counter. “They weren’t in the fridge this morning, were they?”

“They absolutely were. You just have trouble finding anything in here that isn’t staring you down from one inch away.” A collection of spices kept in worn containers, canned chickpeas, and a bag of ditalini pasta appear on the countertop as Josh rummages through a low cabinet and places them there one by one.   

“It’s past midnight, dude. You didn’t have to come at me like that.”

“Re _venge_ ,” Josh says as he stands, lifting his chin a little and looking like a smug cat. Chris loves the look as much as he hates how much he loves it.

“Revenge for what?”

“Forcing me to be productive today. My essay is seventy-five percent finished and there’s still more than a week left to the deadline. What the hell. You know I work better under pressure.”

Chris crosses his arms and stares at the ceiling.  “I thought you’d appreciate not having to drink three cans of Monster an hour before the submission time. Silly me.”

“You are silly. And _that_ only happened ‘cause you infected me with your gross Chris germs.”

“Are you still salty about that?”

“You try drinking three cans of Monster at night and get back to me.”

“I’ve done it for fun. Boom. What do you say to that?”

Josh raises his brows and makes to retort, sighs softly as he sorts his ingredients. “Should’ve known, huh? ‘Kay, let’s get this shit started. I was supposed to make this for Han and Beth for tomorrow, but—”

Chris perks up. “Sorry, what? Hang on. Back up for a sec.”

Josh freezes, avoiding eye contact.

“You were gonna make this for your sisters?”

“...Yup.”

“And like, bring it to them in a Tupperware container.” Chris makes a rectangular box with his hands for added effect, even though he’s the only one to see it.

Josh nods slowly.

“Homemade cooking. For your baby sisters.”

“Yup.”

“Dude.” Chris can’t stop himself from grinning. “ _Dude_. That is so freaking cute.”

“Fuck off.” Josh fiddles with a bit of stray plastic wrap, mouth quirking into a smile.   

“It is!”

“No.”

“It’s adorable.”

“ _Christ_ …”

He hasn’t seen that kind of shyness in a long time, feels himself get dopey with affection. “Come on, I mean it. That’s so sweet. You been doing that since we got shipped off?”

Josh’s shoulders regain a little of their characteristic slump. “...Longer, actually. They like the way I make it.”

“Bro…”

“Shut it. Seriously.”

“I was just gonna say, like, are you sure it’s okay to deprive them of this? The wrath of a single Washington, let alone _two_ , is nothing to scoff at.”

Josh scoffs. “They’ll live.”

“If you say so. I take zero responsibility for whatever chaos ensues.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s settled then!”

“It was settled since your stomach sounded off like a crooning zombie,” Josh says, rolling up his sleeves and flicking on the stove.

Chris gasps. “Don’t talk about my stomach like that.”

“What should I say instead? That I thought an animal was dying outside?”

“This is, hands down, the worst cooking show ever.”

“And I haven’t even started cooking yet.”

“God, and you haven’t even started cooking yet.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while,” Josh says, yanking a knife out from the block beside the sink.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Chris says, mock-defending himself with a chopping board before giving it up, “you know I was kidding when I said _Halloween_ sucked, right?”

“Were you?” Josh grabs the onions and chops each of them into halves, followed by thin half-moons. Chilled by the fridge, they bring only a slight tickle to the eyes.

“Of course.” He can’t manage anything more scathing than that, more focused on the lines in Josh’s forearms as he works the knife.

“Okay,” Josh says, cleaning the blade. “Hey, pass me the pot from under the sink.”

“Huh. I know people like to be relaxed when they cook, but is that—okay, alright, one sec.” Chris slides out of his seat, skirting around Josh and his amused face. He passes it over once he finds it; Josh uses a squeeze bottle to oil the bottom and sits it on the stovetop. “So, Chef Washington, what’s the first step?”

“The most important part. Fried onions.”

“Anything that’s fried gets an A+ in my book.”

“We always fought over who got the most of ‘em when my mom made it.”

“Lemme guess: your sisters always won.”

“Yep. I tried to make my case _once_ , ‘cause when you’re eleven it feels like a huge injustice, right? Then they bawled their eyes out about it and I never tried again.” Taking out a container of flour, he applies a fine coating to the onions and takes time to toss it with his hands.

“Oh my God,” Chris laughs. “I can see that happening.”

“Spoiled,” Josh mutters, but his tone is light.

“Is that why you learned how to make it yourself?”

Josh hums inquisitively as he puts the flour away and exchanges it for a can of tomato paste.

“So then you could just fry up a crapload of onions and hoard them all to yourself—whenever you like.”

“Sure. That and ‘cause mom started getting more involved with editing, so.” An onion slice plops into the pot, the oil bubbling before it works into a sizzle. In go the rest of the slices.

“Right, right. Crap, that smells so good.”

“Uh-huh. We’re just getting started. Get a plate and put a paper towel on it.”

“Roger that.”

In a few minutes, the kitchen fills with the smell of browned onions as Josh scoops them out from the oil to let them dry. Transferring about half of the leftover oil to a smaller pot, he returns the first pot to its place on the stove and maintains the heat.

“Next is the base. Pass the rice and lentils?”

“Voila, monsieur,” Chris says, doing just that.

Josh inclines his head. “Merci, monsieur. Now, here’s my secret.”

“Ooh. Is this the kind of thing that warrants killing me after?”

“Depends on my mood later.”

“I’m taking that as a yes, just so you know.”

“S’at what you’re into?”

Chris blinks, feeling as if his brain just performed a soft reset. This is not a serious question he’s asking. Why would you think it’s serious? Why is this getting so difficult?! (Don’t answer that. Please).

Josh smirks, double-checking his portions.

“Depends on my mood,” Chris finally says. There, and he didn’t even stumble.   

“ _Very_ intriguing. Never took you for the type.”

“Well then, looks like you typed wrong. Better hit backspace on that.”

Josh winces. “Deleting the whole thing as we speak.”

“What’re you gonna write instead?”

“We’ll see.”

“ _Stew_ on it for however long you’d like,” Chris says.

Josh puts on a pained expression and closes his eyes.

“Sorry not sorry. Anyway, you were gonna let me in on a secret.”

“You are such a distraction,” Josh mutters.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“You tell me,” Josh says.

Chris can’t tell him anything when he looks at him like that, with that stupid curl in his lips and that stupid glimmer in his eyes. Or he could, and tell him approximately one thousand things nobody needs to know about. Things like: ‘hey Josh, did you know that just watching you type out an essay gives me warm fuzzies? Did you know that you’re one hell of a bigger distraction than I could ever hope to be? Did you?’

Josh doesn’t wait for his brain to congeal, continues speaking. “ _Anyway_ , you throw in the lentils first. Toss ‘em around a bit, touch of garlic.” He accomplishes each step as he speaks. “Add the rice, get everything a little toasted.” He folds the rice and lentils together, turning the pot into a white mass speckled with spots. “ _Then_ you add salt and water to get it all going.”

“Garlic is godly,” Chris says.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Josh says, offering his hand for a high-five.

Chris meets it. “Okay, now what?”

“Gonna let this baby cook on low for a while once it starts boiling. Can start on the tomato sauce in a minute.”

“Sweet. I have no idea what this is gonna taste like but it smells _great_.”

“Always does. S’like, comfort food, y’know? Total carb bomb.”

“I can’t believe I never had it before. I was at your house like, every day. And you never brought it to school. What’s up with that?”

Josh sways his head from side to side. “Same reason Emily never brought any of her own food with her until after middle school. Get my drift?”

“...Ah.”

“Personally, I didn’t give a shit if people thought like, liver was gross, but my parents did. Whatever. S’not like it stopped anyone from saying other stuff anyway. What’s eating a BLT gonna solve?”

Chris nods. While he can’t purport to understand all of Josh’s experiences, witness to incidents or not, he can at least try to extrapolate from his own.

“It’s whatever. You...kinda get where I’m coming from.”

“Mm.”

Josh exhales, his face wry. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Sure.”

“That requires ‘talking about something else,’” Josh adds, smothering the bottom of the small pot with garlic and pushing it around with a wooden spoon.

“Don’t rush it, bro,” Chris says. “Okay, um. Tell me about your essay.”

“You sure you wanna open that can of worms?”

“What’ve I got to lose other than an ear?”

“Couple brain cells.”

“Tsk, _no_ ,” Chris chuckles. “I mean, sometimes what you’re talking about goes way, _way_ over my head, but I can tell it’s good stuff, dude. C’mon, your marks say it all.”

“That kind of talk isn’t going to get you extra onions.”

He sighs. “Dammit. Well, tell me about it anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Also, once again, garlic is godly,” Chris says, noting another minced portion going into the pot.

“Hell yes,” Josh says, cracking open the can of tomato paste and pouring it over top.  A loud sizzle punctuates the air as red droplets arc out of the pot. He turns down the heat further, flashing Chris a sheepish look, not speaking again until he has everything under control. “Anyway, I’m writing about... it’s 4th wall stuff. Films that play with audience interaction and force them to be a participant, challenge how they relate to what’s on-screen. Building on that to examine what it says about societal norms and shit.”

“Whoa. Heavy stuff.”

“Going full-on film snob. I think I’d like to make a movie like that someday.”

“Going? You were already there like ten years ago.”

“You’re really not that hungry, are you?”

“What, are you gonna say that’s not true?”

Josh shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “You’re lucky you’re…” The rest of what he says dissolves into the pot as he turns to face it.

“Sorry, what?”

“What?”

“I’m lucky I’m what?”

Josh spares him a glance, screwing his mouth to one side in faux contemplation. “Lucky you’re wearing glasses.”

“...Oh.”

“What did you think I was gonna say?”

Whoops. Laid the disappointment on a bit thick. “I dunno. Something more...flattering, maybe?”

“What, you don’t think you don’t look good in ‘em?”

Chris shuts his mouth.

“Well?”

“N-Never really thought about it I guess?”

“Maybe you should.”

Brain whirring, heart whirring faster. Yes. Maybe he should think about how Josh thinks that he should think that he looks good in glasses, and that that in itself means _Josh_ thinks he looks good in glasses—or at least he thinks it does—and how can so much thinking be going on when his head feels like a freshly blue-screened computer? He regathers himself as best he can. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he says, making sure he still has a voice. “Anyway, um.” He clears his throat. “Your essay.” Wow. Amazing. Just let him melt into the floor now. Please. It’s five thousand degrees in here.

Confusion flits across Josh’s face before he laughs through his nose. “What the hell was that? Was that your version of a segue?”

“I-I don’t know,” Chris says quickly, trying to ignore the eyes on him. “Save the applause.” Save yourself, really. Leave before this gets even messier.

Another round of chuckling. “Gladly. You were saying?”

“I was gonna say that…there’s a distinct lack of blood and guts in this one.”

Josh grins as he adds water and a dusting of spices to the pot. “S’what the prof said when I met up with her. Thought I’d throw her a curveball. By the way, you down for a bit of heat?”

“I’m down for you to _turn_ it down.”

“What a baby.”

“I prefer to be able to taste the food I’m eating, not chugging a gallon of milk and crying on the floor beside it. And no. No. _Do not_ bring up the time Emily took us to that Chinese place. Don’t. Stop laughing. Bro!”

Josh’s shoulders shake as he bites his index finger.

“That was one of _the_ worst days of my life!”

“I can’t believe we actually had to leave and buy a carton of milk for you. That was fucking amazing. ”

“My tongue was numb for days. Days!”

“Settle down there, Cochise. That’s a little tee-em-eye.”

“Man, shut up.”

“First you tell me to gab about my essay, then you tell me to shut up. Talk about mixed signals.”

“That’s how I roll.”

“Man, _you_ shut up.”

“Then feed me already!”

“S’gonna be at least twenty more minutes,” Josh says. “Think you can make it without gnawing your fingers off?”

“Ugh. No promises.”

“Very nice. I like your confidence.” Once the sauce begins boiling, Josh turns down the heat and lets it simmer, carefully placing the lid so that a small amount of steam can escape. “Now for _dakka_.”

“And that is…”

“It’s like a dressing. Adds a bit of kick to the whole thing. ...Shit. I left the lemons in my room. Mind stirring? Just once or twice’ll do it.”

“Why did you leave lemons in your room?”

“From when I ran errands this morning. I’ll get them. You stir. Got it?”

“Aye aye,” Chris says, sliding out of his seat and bumping Josh away with his shoulder. “I’ll try not to burn down the kitchen.”

“Third time’s the charm,” Josh says lightly, strolling out of the kitchen and down the hall. “‘Member, we’re not in the dorms anymore.”

“It was just the one time! A total fluke!” Chris calls. “...And it wasn’t the entire kitchen.” He huffs to himself and takes hold of the spoon.

The blend of sauce and spices is strong and sharp in his nose, reinforced by garlic and vinegar. Wholly unfamiliar yet comforting all the same. He lifts the lid on the rice and lentils, an earthy scent flowing out on wisps of steam that fog up his glasses. Bubbling at a measured pace, the grains have begun to thicken as they soak up the water.

Though he didn’t grow up with it, it still calls to mind a kind of coziness, warmth that he can’t quite access but can understand at the very least. He knows the languid comfort of sitting down to a home-cooked meal, sharing in something that may very well appear in other households but always has a little something that makes it special. Distracted by memories, he goes back to stirring, experimenting with different methods and going well over the ‘once or twice’ that was asked of him. He doesn’t hear the sound of footsteps approaching, coming to a stop, hardwood creaking. Just clockwise, counterclockwise, and sauce dripping when he inspects it.

“Having fun?”

Chris does a double-take, nearly flinging the spoon and a dollop of sauce with it. “Whoa! _Shit_. H...How long have you been standing there?”

Josh chuckles, unmoving from his slant against the fridge. Arms crossed over his chest, eyes soft, he looks like he got comfortable. “Long enough,” he replies.

He pretends he didn’t just jump two feet into the air. “Am I cut out for the job?”

“Maybe. I’ll have to keep an eye on you a bit longer.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You don’t mind?’

“Should I?”

Josh shrugs.

Chris keeps stirring. “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Josh says. “Good.”

Actually, _actually_ , if he were to tell the truth right now: he does mind, and he minds very much. He can’t stop his heart from pluming into his fingers and numbing the tips, or his skin from prickling, or his shoulders from aligning straight. He wants Josh to stay where he is and let his eyes wander and he wants him to step in close, sidle up against him and...what was he doing again? Right. Stirring, stirring…

“Dude. Chill.”

He stares down at the sudden pressure forcing him to stop.

It’s Josh’s hand, thumb pressing into the underside of his wris; arbitrary as the placement may seem, he can’t deny how nice it feels.   

He stutters out a “Wh-Whoops,” wanting to pull away to keep Josh from figuring him out through the flittering of his pulse and wanting, too, to keep his hand steady.

Josh solves the problem for him, shooing him away to place the lid back onto the pot.“Y’gotta let it simmer. You can rage out another time.”

“Sorry. Ah. You...know how it is.” Yeah, you know how it is when you have a painful, agonizing, _excruciating_ crush on your best friend of ten years and counting and now you’re living together and _now_ he’s cooking for you and you still don’t have the nerve to tell him?

“...Homework getting to you?” Josh asks, positing the question as more of a suggestion.

Chris settles again on his chair. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Homework. Yeah, com sci midterm coming up, so.” Not a complete lie.  

“That midterm’s gonna get its shit rocked.”

“Well, that’s the plan.”

“What’s the hold-up?”

“Oh, you know. Just that…” and Chris wiggles his fingers, “general...anxiety bullshit.”

“It can get to you. You cool?”

“Yeah, I’m cool. So. _Dakka_. What can I do to help?”

Josh gathers up the same spices he’d used for the sauce and a clove of garlic, then fetches water in a measuring cup. “Mix these all together. Might as well just put them right into the cup.”

Chris takes the cup from him, pouting. “Aw. Bro. Is that all you trust me to do?”

“We can’t have you burning down our place just yet.”

“‘Just yet.’ So you plan to do it at some point.”

“Once we get everyone over for something more than an apartment-warming party. Yes. Gonna go full-on _Carrie_.”

“Sweet,” Chris says, carefully combining his allotted ingredients. “Best way to fire up the crowd, right?”

Josh works on preparing the pasta, stopping for a moment to snicker. “Right? You’re on my level.”

“Wait, does that mean you’re gonna use telekinetic powers to totally kill everyone?”

“Nah, we can have a good time with it. No need for any of that. Alright, now a bit of lemon.” Josh cuts out a slice and puts it in Chris’ hand. “Give ‘er a squeeze.”

“Don’t make it weird…”  
  
“Too late.”

“And how much is a squeeze?”

Josh squints. “What?”

“I mean like, how much should I squeeze it?”

“I dunno. ‘Til it’s begging for more?”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“I need...I need some lemon _aid_.”

Chris bursts out laughing as Josh folds over to rest his head on the counter.

“Come on,” he says, pushing at Josh’s arm,“I’m serious, bro. Please.”

It comes out muffled: “I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

“I can’t count how many times I’ve heard that one.”

“Maybe today is the last straw. Ever think about that?”

“Could you at least wait until after my midterm? I don’t want my studying go to waste.”

“I could be convinced.”

“If it involves me stopping with the punny jokes, then I’ll just look forward to you going Michael Myers on me later.”

“I’m perfectly equipped to do this right now,” Josh says, indicating the knife block with a nod.

“Oh, wonderful. Points for being faster than college wifi.”

“Would’ve been faster if you didn’t overload it with porn every night.”

“Yeah, you’re right. _Lord of the Rings_ is definitely a porno for the senses.”

Josh rolls his eyes, but it’s all in good fun. “That’s exactly what I meant. Alright. Squeeze the lemon like you’re squeezing your controller ‘cause I just beat your ass in Smash.”

“Oh, that’s heavy.”

“I know, right? Go ahead and channel that frustration.”

Chris gives it a shot, taking more time to hold back his laughter than to heed Josh’s advice. Not his best work, seeing as he gets juice all over his hand; he calls it a win since he doesn’t get scolded.

“Alright, we’re pretty much done,” Josh says, nodding as Chris gives the dressing a final stir and swirls it golden.

“Nice!” Chris says. “Okay, how do we do this? Oh, hang on, lemme get the bowls.”

While waiting, Josh uncovers the rice and lentils and lets big clouds of steam billow out. The way he leans forward to take in the smell makes Chris go warm.   

“Pretty much perfect,” Josh says quietly. He fluffs up the rice with a spoon before scooping a portion into the bowl. “Pasta next.” Flipping the pasta in a sieve, he then transfers a small portion over top the rice. He makes for a ladle, twirling it once over his fingers. “Sauce. Boom.”

“And then...dressing?”

“No...chickpeas. _Shit_. I forgot all about them.”

“Crap, dude. I guess you’re gonna be eliminated from the show now. And here you had me all impressed with your trick shots.” Seriously. Some days he has trouble picking up a pen off the table.

“Was nice while it lasted,” Josh says, rummaging through a drawer to find a can opener. Wrestling open the can and moving the chickpeas to a sieve for rinsing, he adds, “God, I’m so glad they’re already cooked. Be fucking boned if they weren’t.”  

“Eugh. Yeah. Sounds awful. I think I prefer my chickpeas boneless.”

Josh snorts, almost dropping the sieve. It clangs against the sink edge.

“I’ve never even had chickpeas before, actually, so I _could_ be wrong.”

“You wanna eat or not?”

Chris laughs into a grin, and Josh grins, too, shaking his head. He lets the chickpeas tumble out of the sieve, creating a ring of them on the outer edge of the bowl.

“Now, just a dash of _dakka_. You wanna taste it first? S’pretty strong stuff,” Josh says, taking out a small amount on a spoon.

“Oh, sure.”

“Here.” No mischief in his tone, posture open and relaxed.

Chris blinks, staring at the spoon hovering before him. It’s a trick, it’s totally a trick, but the cottony quality that cushions all interactions past midnight makes him focus more on the domesticity of all this and turns his thoughts into fluff.

“S’getting cold.” The spoon waves around.

“It was never even—okay, okay,” Chris says, gently tasting the edge. His eyes squeeze shut and he pulls away, as if that might let him escape from the sudden tartness that overpowers his tongue. “Oh. Oh wow. That. Yeah you were not lying,” he says, trying not to smile when Josh laughs. Failing hard. “Just add a little bit. Tiny amount. _Tiny_.”  

“Yup.” Josh takes the leftover _dakka_ into his mouth and tosses the spoon into the sink, grabbing another to add a small portion to Chris’ bowl. On top he sprinkles the fried onions, strands forming something of a crown. “Alright. Midnight dinner is _served_.”

“Dark breakfast,” Chris supplies, taking the bowl into his hands and enjoying the way it warms his palms.

“How’s it look?” Josh asks, pulling over a chair and taking a seat.

Chris looks at him instead. Quiet pride radiates from his eyes, while his lips curl small and hopeful. “Looks awesome,” he says.

“Good.” Josh angles against the counter, chin in hand. Any ounce of nonchalance in the pose gets eliminated by his free hand tapping out a stilted rhythm on the wood.

“Aren’t you having any?”

“You first.”

“Alrighty.” Carefully manoeuvring the spoon so that he gets a little bit of everything, he balances it, blows a little, then has a taste.

It’s unlike anything he’s had before. The flavours come in a wave, the rice warm and earthy with lentils, the tomato sauce sharp and sharpened by the _dakka_ and tempered by the nuttiness of the chickpeas. The onions add a welcome, salty crunch; Chris can only hum and take another bite, then another. 

“Bro, this is _really_ good,” he manages to say. “I’ve been missing out.”

Josh’s face brightens as he chews his lip. “Y’think?”

“Yeah. I’m definitely gonna have seconds. ...Probably thirds.”

“Might as well help myself before it’s too late,” Josh says, getting up. “Hang on a sec.”

He looks up from his meal and straight into the camera of Josh’s phone.

“Sending this to Han and Beth so they know whose fault it is that they’re not getting anything to eat until tomorrow evening.”

“Man. You’re the one who offered!”

“They don’t have to know that,” Josh says idly, typing away. “God, you look like such a goon in this picture.”

“You promised my life wouldn’t be in danger. I’m taking this to Yelp, you jerk.”

“Yeah. You do that, bro. If you’re alive tomorrow.”

“Great. Guess I’ll just enjoy this while I can,” Chris mumbles. “Thanks, by the way.”

Josh shrugs. “It’s no biggie.”

“Uh, what? Yeah it is. You cooked a whole-ass meal for me.” He gestures to the pots and pans waiting to be loaded into the sink. “Look at all this!”

Josh shrugs again, one-shouldered this time.

“Really? You’re just gonna shrug it off? C’mon, dude. This was really nice.”

The upward turn of Josh’s lips is almost imperceptible, his gaze towards his hands as pushes a few chickpeas around with his spoon. He has no business looking this cute.     

The heat in Chris’ chest rivals the one cradled in his hands. “We _have_ to do this again. Do you know how to make other stuff?” With Josh’s attention piqued, he continues. “I mean, it’d be cool to like, try other things that you grew up with. And I could help out a bit more than today, too. It’d be fun, right?”  

“I’d have to double-check a couple things,” Josh says, “but, yeah… I’d be down for that. Totally.”

“Awesome! I mean, don’t feel obligated or anything, it’s kind of a lot to ask for, like, getting all this stuff out and putting all this time into it just for us, and the planning and whatnot and—”

“Bro.”

“Huh?”

“What’re you getting so worked up for?” Josh asks, tilting his head and looking pleased. “I wanna do this.”

“Y-Yeah?” He’s holding it back as best he can, but his face has probably some red to it. Mostly from self-consciousness, with a touch of ‘Josh, fuck you if you really don’t know the reason why my face is imploding.’

“Yeah. S’what I was planning to ask if you liked what I made tonight. Having you chip in is a nice bonus, though. This was fun, huh?” Josh nudges his arm with his own.

Chris returns the gesture. “Of course it was. _Just_ in case you weren’t aware, though, I probably won’t be much help.”

Josh puts on that feline smirk again. “I don’t mind. We do need a dishwasher.”

“Gee. Was that your scheme all along?”

“I’d say it’s a fair trade.”

“You... _might_ have a point there.”

“Correction: I do have a point.”

“Pfft. Whatever,” Chris says, knocking Josh’s ankles with his feet.

Josh reciprocates and gives push-back, though he doesn’t move back to his own space even after Chris resigns himself to remaining on the rung of his own chair.

Any time he shifts, his thigh presses into Josh’s knee. And when that happens, his heart presses into his mouth. It almost nudges the words sheltered there out into the space between them. Almost.   

Pressure light at first, he dares to let the full weight of his leg settle. The contact is warm, and Josh doesn’t move away. Maybe he moves closer. Neither of them say anything as they each have another bite.

It goes quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet where it feels like there’s a cloud sitting above your head, full and round and ready with rain.

When Josh looks at him sidelong, smiling warmly, he imagines a droplet landing on the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> koshari is really good, and i highly recommend it! hope you liked this chapter :3


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